Archie came and stood beside me, watching as I turned the pages.
“I don’t know this language,” he said.
I shook my head. “Nor do I. The…goblins—I still cannot believe I’m saying such a thing—do goblins have their own language? Is such a thing possible?”
“Yes,” Archie replied, certainty in his voice.
His answer chilled me.
“But what is this book? Why do they want it so badly that they entrapped you just to get it?” Archie said.
“I don’t know,” I eyed the writing, small loops and dots marked the letters which were otherwise unfamiliar. I exhaled heavily. “What if this book contains something very wicked. There is no way to know. How can I hand over such a book not knowing the content?”
I turned to the very last page. There, at the end, was a signature. The name was almost impossible to read, but the letters took on a familiar shape. “Chri—something. Marl—something. I can’t make out the rest.”
Archie nodded. “If only we knew what it said. There may be someone here who can read it. I don’t know. But we must tell Master Montgomery and Mistress Quickly.”
“I…Elvish,” I said then snapped my fingers.
“Elvish?”
“Just something Laura said. She told me her mother said that if you look through a hagstone, you can read elvish. If we had a hagstone, maybe we could try.”
“Grandfather didn’t have another. But your Uncle Horace has a fine collection of Native American artifacts,” Archie said then rushed to the door. “Wait here. I’ll be back in just a moment.”
I went to the window. There, in the distance beyond the gate, I saw a hooded figure, waiting and watching.
“Goblins.”
Not possible.
Not possible, but real.
“Goblins and clockwork gnomes. What is this world?”
I stared at the figure. A few moments later, Archie returned. “Here,” he said, lifting a rock which was a bit larger than the hagstones, but was still a stone with a hole at its center. He crossed the room to join me.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Your Uncle Horace’s Native American collection has a very nice assortment of tools used by the native people. I believe this was used for making weapons. No matter. It’s a stone with a hole. Let’s see if it works,” he said then handed the stone to me.
I took the stone then paused, gazing out the window once more. “There,” I said, pointing.
Archie followed my gaze.
“Do you see him?” I asked.
Archie nodded. “This realm is full of haunted places and things. It is a secret world that lives just under our own. You, Scarlette Rossetti, have opened the door to that world quite by accident. But, I think, it was inevitable.”
“Inevitable? Why?”
“Because all around you are doors. Eventually, you were going to open one.”
I stared at Archie.
He took my hand, and we went back to the table where the book lay.
I turned the pages back to the beginning, took a deep breath, then lifted the stone. Centering it and focusing my vision, I looked at the book. My hands began to shake.
“Scarlette?” Archie whispered.
“A Guide to Controlling Goblins and other Magical Creatures,” I said, my voice trembling. “That is the title.”
Archie rushed across the room and grabbed some parchment lying in a tray. He pulled out a chair and sat down, pulling an inkpot toward himself.
“You read. I’ll record,” he said.
I turned the page and looked as the words slowly shifted from goblin to English. “It’s all about goblins and other fey creatures. There are enchantments, spells.” I shook my head. “No wonder they want the book.”
Outside, the wind blew, stirring up the snow.
“Come buy, come buy,” I heard a soft call on the breeze.
Archie turned toward the window. “Was that…”
I nodded.
He frowned. “If they want their book, then we shall give it back to them. But not without recording its contents first. Dammit, I wish there was a faster way.”
“We’ll invent one after this. I’ll be quick. Let’s begin. A Guide to Controlling Goblins and other Magical Creatures.”
I began reciting, the hagstone translating the words from goblin to English. With each successive page, the hair on the back of my neck rose, and my skin broke out in goosebumps. The tiny tome spoke of pooka, brownies, boggarts, fairies, goblins, and even the little people of the hollow hills. Whoever had written this book had trafficked with them, learned their ways, and had recorded it all. My hands trembled as the book described the goblin king, a fierce overlord who was centuries old. I remembered the merchant’s words about his master. Is that who he meant? The goblin king? Had the goblin king demanded the return of the book?
A footman came to call Archie and me for luncheon, but we sent our apologies. There was no time to stop. It had already grown dark outside when I finally came to the last page where the original author had left his mark.
“I still cannot make out the name,” I said, frowning as I set down the hagstone.
“We will inquire with the Rude Mechanicals.”
“The what?”
Archie tapped his pin once more. “The Rude Mechanicals.”
“Like the Shakespeare play?”
“Exactly. Master Shakespeare was a founding member.”
Astonished, I shook my head. I gently closed the book and glanced outside. “It’s nearly dark. I need to go,” I said, standing. My neck and back ached.
“The goblins will try to double-cross you. I’m coming with you.”
“Archie, you can’t risk yourself for me.”
“What if something happens to you?” he said then took my hand. “Scarlette… Please forgive me for being so presumptuous, but I’m afraid I’m quite taken with you. And, I think, you feel the same way. Thoughts have crossed my mind that I’ve never even entertained before. I can’t let you go alone. Do you understand? Letting you go alone puts that vision—and you—at risk.”
“All right,” I said softly. “But you must promise to stay back and follow my lead.”
“Anywhere.”
I chuckled. “Anywhere? Very well, Master Boatswain. Let’s head to the goblin market.”
Chapter 10: The Goblin Market
Archie was Right. The Goblins would try to double-cross me. The smartest thing to do was to get there first. I lifted a page from Archie’s notes and stuck it in my pocket. My mind reeled at the thought that I was about to go confront a goblin on Christmas Eve no less. How was this even possible? How could this be real? Small moments from my life replayed themselves. Between Uncle Horace and Father, there had been awkward conversations about Uncle Horace’s scholarly purists. Even Father’s paintings—and when she had been alive, Mother’s sculptures—often depicted the supernatural. I remembered half conversations, odd looks, and fleeting shadows. I recalled seeing things I could never quite explain, people who made my skin grow cold, and others whose eyes were deep and rich with wisdom…or was it magic? Archie was right, it had been there all this time, right under my nose. Only now had it found me.
We could hear the others in the parlor as we slipped outside. The sun had set. Moonbeams gleamed onto the powdery white canvas, making the snowflakes shimmer crystalline. The tall, leafless trees cast long shadows on the property. If I hadn’t been terrified, it would have been beautiful.
Wordlessly, we entered the forest. Deep in the woods, I spied the tents. No one met us on the road.